


and this is how it starts

by scrybles



Series: bend backward and smile [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, personal assistant au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrybles/pseuds/scrybles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's really no room for personal feelings when your boss is an undeservedly, obscenely famous singer-slash-actor and you his lowly, underappreciated assistant. Liam spends the majority of his time cleaning up after Harry, micromanaging his life, and making sure he doesn't take a flying leap off the edge of sanity and common decency, and as such never has a moment to think about whether or not he's in love with the biggest twat in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and this is how it starts

**Author's Note:**

> let's just call this the liam-as-the-beleaguered-and-exasperated-personal-assistant AU that i never know if i'll fully commit to writing entirely one day. 
> 
> for now, i think i'm just going to post anything from this universe that takes me by the hands and forces them to my computer keyboard.

Sometimes he wonders if he works for a child. Only a child wouldn't get away with half as much.

Liam never bothers knocking anymore. because by this point he's learned it's rather pointless. He might as well spit into the wind for all the good knocking does. It usually makes Liam's morning that much harder. He half recalls the days when he used to tiptoe about overly chic hotel hallways and ridiculously extravagant New York City penthouses, afraid he might offend someone with the sound of his footfalls or his honest-to-God slack-jawed disbelief that this has somehow become his life. But that was a long, _long_ time ago, when the view of Central Park at forty stories could strike him dumb and the sight of Harry Styles' pale, naked backside made his face burn hotter than the devil's arsecrack in July. Well, except maybe Harry's bum still sort of makes him go warm all over and Liam really, really tries not to think about it, Harry's bum or the effects it has on his well being. Anyway, Liam doesn't knock, finds it wholly unnecessary given that he always has a key. 

The thing is, Liam is used to it by now. Pushing hotel doors open with his shoulder, because his hands and arms are full of unnecessary, superfluous shite Harry considers essential to his living, breathing existence, and sort-of-tripping into a suite with clothes strewn from door to bed and room drenched in artificial darkness. If Liam wanted to get all profound about it, he could probably wax lyrical over his life and how it's become this big, convoluted metaphor of a joke. He carries Harry's _everything_ in his arms and stumbles around in the dark, poignant, right? Except Liam doesn't really have time for metaphors, and the only time he gets so wordy is when he's either arguing with Harry or trying to confuse him into doing something. Or both. It's been long enough that he can never tell anymore.

He flicks the corridor light on with his elbow and moves quickly to drop Harry's things onto the small dining table, relinquishing everything but the scalding cup of coffee he picked up not five minutes ago. Then he proceeds to gather all the clothes that don't belong to Harry, as well as silently hate himself for knowing exactly which of them do, even in the semi-dark. Can pick out Harry's awful _ironic_ deep-v t-shirts and bollock-suffocating skinny jeans with his eyes closed, even. 

So, instead of Harry's things, Liam now has an armful of strangers' clothes as he's busting into the bedroom and he really tries to understand what the hell happened to his life. Liam drops the clothes at the foot of the bed, draws open the blackout curtains, and stares resolutely at the mop of dark curls sticking out from the mass and tangle of lithe limbs. The the scene unfolds, everything is bathed in morning light. It takes a few moments, but soon Harry's head is popping up from under someone's arm and he's blinking bleary-eyed at Liam, face scrunched up in an expression of lazy betrayal that he's gotten real used to seeing every morning, and every night, and every time Liam has to force Harry to _do_ something. Which makes no sense because how does someone who can barely drag himself out of bed before noon make ninety-five million dollars a year? “You're the cruellest man I know, Liam Payne,” Harry moans, raspy and deep and impossibly slow, then stuffs his face back into his pillow, quite willing to suffocate himself before facing a new day. 

It's all for naught, though, because Harry's two companions in courtesy and unclad conduct have begun to stir, one of them staring warily at Liam while the other rolls over and rubs the sleep out of their eyes. “Morning,” Liam greets with a practised measure of cheer, both to Harry and his unfairly attractive bedmates. They both look a lot more scandalised than they ought to, considering they've a very famous, and by the looks of it very hungover Harry Styles sandwiched between them. “Your clothes,” Liam points out helpfully while Harry chances a glance from the press of his pillow, smirking at him as if he has any right to, and it takes a lot for Liam not to dump the cup of coffee in his hand all over Harry's gorgeous face. He resists the urge, just barely, and instead places it on the bedside table, politely averting his eyes when Harry's new friends roll out of bed and begin getting dressed.

“Liam, this is Georgia and Eric,” Harry introduces, watching him with a smile and a stare, curls flopping ridiculously over his eyes. 

“Um, Erica,” the girl says, halfway into her cocktail dress already and motioning for the guy to come and zip her up. He's already jumped into some artfully torn designer jeans, and has his expensive looking shirt draped over his shoulders while he too pipes in with, “And George.”

Harry at least has the grace to look somewhat apologetic as he shrugs. “Sorry?” But Liam isn't sure that Harry's even awake enough to mean it.

“Classy, Hazza,” Liam mutters as Harry laughs, low and throaty, and burrows himself under layers and layers of billion thread-count covers. 

“Stop that. Stop making your face all judgey,” whines Harry when Liam sits on the edge of the bed and sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose and wishing, just for a second, that he could start out the majority of his mornings without having to shuffle two exceptionally fit strangers out of Harry's bed and into the street. 

“My face is not doing anything,” Liam shoots back somewhat distractedly. Harry's guests finish dressing and stand next to each other at the foot of the bed, and now that Liam gets a better look, realises just how alike they appear. The slope of the shoulders, the angular but delicate jaw, twin expressions of uncertainty as they glance between Harry and himself. Liam hopes desperately that they're just a really attractive, really vain couple because Harry sleeping with siblings is not new, nor is it extremely unlikely. But never at the same time, and never in the same hotel room, and _never_ in the middle of shutter happy West Hollywood the day after the Grammys. 

“Yes it is. I can feel it through my duvet shield.” He pokes his head out of the covers to check if Liam is indeed judging him, as if it's not partially his fault that Harry finds it acceptable to act out so spectacularly on the daily. Liam makes a mental note to forward all his optometry bills to Harry's accountant for all the bloody eye-straining eye-rolling he causes, and reaches over to forcibly pull the duvet over Harry's head, muttering, “You. Don't move,” as he stands. The couple (please God just be a couple) bid their farewells to Harry, whom is no doubt pouting resolutely under the covers, before Liam shuffles them out of the room quickly and sits them down in the spacious seating area right outside the bedroom. 

All things considered, it could be worse. It really, _really_ could be worse. Just thinking of the ways it could be worse makes the base of his skull throb in the beginnings of a headache and Liam tries to reach his zen place while he rifles through the brightly coloured plastic folder amongst the chaos of Harry's things. The both of them, with their dark hair and wide eyes, gaze up at Liam curious and intent. 

It doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for, always has a stack handy actually, sliding two non-disclosure agreements out of the folder and across the coffee table between them. Erica, bless her cottons, seems to know what they are without even reading them, and Liam feels kind of guilty when all the colour drains from her face and she gets a steely look in her eye. Only kind of, though. “Like we'd ever tell,” she says, scandalised, shifting in her seat as George's hand covers hers, placating. 

“I'm gonna have to insist,” Liam says as they both look like they're working their way up to being offended. He hates this part, mostly because he hates being so impolite, but also because Harry gets to have all the fun while Liam deals with all the consequences. He does the same thing he does every time he finds naked strangers in Harry's bed: smiles and offers a pen. It's easier if you don't fight it, just, do what's best for all of us. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to say much, because they're both snatching the proffered pens in Liam's outstretched hand, and signing; George with a slow and careful looping, and Erica with a sharp hard-pressed scrawl. So hard she's probably left a mark in the coffee table. They leave quietly, all willowy and pale and waves of dark hair, looking like nothing that belongs in southern California, glancing back at the room like they're trying to capture the memory. Like they're trying to keep last night for as long as possible. And when the door snicks shut behind them, Liam takes a calming breath before he darts into the bedroom, pushing up his sleeves and preparing himself for anything. 

“Those are really annoying, you know,” Harry tells him, still curled up in bed. 

Liam rolls his eyes. Again. “They're designed to protect you.” 

“Who from, exactly?”

_Yourself,_ Liam thinks, ignoring the noises Harry makes as he stretches and twists, covers tangling up in his long limbs. He grabs at Harry's coffee, still hot, like Liam's face. “From people taking advantage of you.”

Harry sits up, scratching at his unkempt hair and yawning wide. “Isn't that what you're for?” And no. That is _not_ why Liam is here, even though that's what he always ends up doing. 

“I'm here to bring you coffee,” he starts, moving around the bed, “And keep you on schedule. And make sure your life is on track. Make sure you _behave_.”

Harry throws his legs over the side of the bed, turning his gaze up on Liam, and it pins him right there. Right to the spot, looming above Harry, whose eyes hang half-lidded and lips flush red and chapped from too much kissing, or God, something Liam doesn't want to think about. “And you're so good at it,” Harry says so deep, it settles in Liam's gut like a punch. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Flattery will get you no where,” Liam says, sort of breathless, and he's been here enough times, been standing right here in front of a thoroughly debauched Harry enough times, that he's gotten pretty good at sounding exasperated as opposed to extremely flustered. “So come one. Get up, lazy git.” Harry laughs again, rubbing at his eyes with the flesh of his palms. 

He stands, and grabs at the sheets slipping from his lap. “Look away, Liam,” Harry says, making a feeble attempt at wrapping himself up. “I'm not decent.” He snatches his coffee from Liam and sways his way into the en suite, covers trailing behind him like some obscene wedding train, wetspots and sweatstains and all, making faces as he sniffs at the cup. 

“Are you ever?”

“Ow, Liam. Ow,” Harry pops his head from inside the bathroom to give Liam the most disapproving look he can muster at such an hour. Liam only quirks his lips and flaps his hands in the universal gesture of 'get moving'. The shower starts running, and steam starts to pour from the open door as Liam busies himself organising their things. Their luggage is already waiting in the car, so it's mostly just odds and ends that fit in the two carry-ons between them. Extra clothes, scripts, laptop and phones. Fifty thousand dollars worth of useless goodies and giftbags from the Grammys and its various afterparties. All the things Harry can definitely afford to buy for himself but ends up getting free anyway. He glances at his watch, not pleased with what it tells him. 

Fortunately it doesn't take long for Harry to shower, humming his way through two or three of his own songs before the sound of showerheads and powerjets and massage nozzles shut off. And Liam, efficient boy that he is, has pretty much finished packing by the time he hears Harry retching and hacking like the true thespian he is. “Liam, this coffee is absolutely awful,” Harry bellows, true to form. Liam snorts. 

Harry swans out of the loo all limbs and pale skin, glistening wet and looking rather unimpressed. “How do you expect me to kickstart my day without the proper amount of sugar to wake me up in the morning?”

“It's all they had downstairs,” explains Liam, feeling all sorts of not guilty, considering the vast array of freshly ground gourmet coffees he had to choose from. The twist of Harry's lips tells him that he doesn't believe one iota of what Liam tells him. Why should he? Getting Harry the wrong coffee is his forte. It's probably been years since he's gotten it right. Come to think of it, has he _ever_ gotten it right?

“I wonder if Lou still has that French press.”

Liam throws clean clothes at him with as much force as he can get away with, finding everything about Harry and his priorities ridiculous. So ridiculous. “We can't pass by Louis'. You'll miss your flight.”

“It's my plane. Why on earth would it leave without me.”

“You are _so_ missing the point, Harry.”

Luckily, it's early enough that there's very little fan presence and virtually no photographers waiting out front, which makes it much easier than normal to shuffle them out the entrance of the hotel. There's no fuss, besides an autograph or two, getting Harry to the car. Liam ducks in after him, handing Harry his phones after they've buckled in and settled. They're on their way maybe five minutes, Liam shooting off texts to Nick and a few other people, before Harry leans forward and rattles off an address in Venice, tells the driver to head there first. Withering glares don't work on Harry as they once used to, but Liam sends him one anyway. He texts Louis too, who doesn't normally mind when they drop by, but likes a little warning if he's being dragged out of bed before a reasonable hour. “Remind me why we didn't stay at Lou's again,” Harry asks absently, distracted by Candy Crush.

“Because Louis, decent lad that he is, doesn't like strangers running in and out his flat at all hours of the day.”

Harry scoffs. “Details.”

\- - -


End file.
